Novelty
by kuchee
Summary: Kyle eyes the flavouring on the packet, bacon cheddar, and then Stan, pointedly. "Really? Of all days?" (Stan/Kyle, short holiday fluff!)


Kyle curses under his breath and backspaces several times. It's hard to write a text with only his thumbs poking out of his gloves, but he's damned if he's going to actually take them off in the freezing cold.

** To: Stan 1.11PM **

Can you come over and keep me company while I fry a gajillion donuts for my mom?

**To: Stan 1.13PM**

please?

There's no point in being annoyed about the situation–– it's not like he had any actual plans for today, other than mentally steeling himself for the family gathering tonight. Frying donuts is as good an activity as any to pass the time. He's always dreaded this time of year, when his mother hosts her extended family for the evening, usually on the first night of Hanukkah. Kyle gets saddled with the responsibility of making nice with dull cousins and answering invasive questions from aunts about his future. Last year he'd even gotten a couple of pointed remarks regarding hypothetical girlfriends.

The food is almost worth it, however.

He glances down to the miserably empty tote bag slung from his shoulder as he digs his keys out of his coat pocket. His failed attempt at gift shopping this morning is another reminder of how woefully strange the holidays are for him. He doesn't even know _why _he tried to get Stan a present. They don't do this normally–– it's no one's birthday. He just thought, it's _different _now. It's what a_ boyfriend _should do, right? As a good boyfriend, he should be getting Stan a present, because Stan likes Christmas, and Stan loves presents. He was that kid who would be thrilled every year when his parents let him open one on Christmas Eve, even though they'd be like, pajamas, every time.

A string of buzzes makes his phone jump on the counter while he's untying his shoes.

**Ma** 1.17PM

You're an angel :)

**Ma **1.16PM

Dough is covered on the dining table, pans in the cupboard above the sink.

**Stan **1.14PM

Be there in 20. Want anything from store

Both texts make him smile through the mild distress haunting him since morning, the realisation that he has no idea what the fuck to get for Stan. While he's worrying about presents, Stan's still repeating the same line from when they were fifteen.

He knows where the dough is, he spied it before he left this morning, and presently he's attempting not to quail at the thought of getting through that amount. His mom had called while he was in the car–– she's out with Dad getting a few last minute items from the warehouse store out of town, and an accident on the highway has put them an hour behind schedule, possibly more.

He doesn't mind. Living away for real has made him starkly aware of how little responsibility he had while living at home, and more than that, he wants to help out, especially if Stan comes to keep him company. These dinners stress his mom out, too.

Kyle gathers everything he needs, and at the last moment, decides to put on an apron. He doesn't want to have to change into anything else for tonight. He thinks he knows how to make the donuts, he's watched his mom do it through the years and helped her on occasion. _She _certainly assumed he did. His hands are sticky with dough when he hears footsteps in the corridor. He glances at his phone. Fifteen minutes, not twenty.

Stan enters the kitchen with a brief "hey, dude," and a smile that's probably less starry-eyed than the way Kyle's interpreting it.

The cold from outside radiates off him, but it's not enough to quell the urge Kyle gets to lean over and squeeze him. He settles on a smile, raising powdery white hands to show why he can't do more.

Stan promptly empties his backpack (firm on this front; he'd been the one to wean Kyle off plastic bags): chocolate chip cookies, a couple protein bars, and a bag of chips that he opens up, offering one up to Kyle's mouth.

Kyle eyes the flavouring on the packet, bacon cheddar, and then Stan, pointedly. "Really? Of _all _days?"

Stan rolls his eyes. "They're vegan. And like you care, anyway."

Kyle leans forward and takes it, and then two more, hoping this doesn't mean that Stan is attempting_ that_ again. His cheeks burn belatedly as he chews, with the dawning understanding that Stan just _fed _him, and they didn't do_ that _before, but by the time he realises it, Stan has ducked away to the coffee maker.

"I thought you'd wanna be out," he says beneath the crinkle of the bag of chips. "Don't you need time to charge up before tonight?"

"I _was_ out shopping. But my mom's stuck in traffic so she needs me to help her get ahead on preparations."

Stan nods his acknowledgement, and if he can read any hesitancy in Kyle's tone about his morning activities, he doesn't mention it. "Anything I can help with?"

"Can you dig out the lights? They should be in a box in the living room."

Stan returns with said box a minute later, dumping it on the counter a few paces from Kyle. Kyle's almost finished cutting out circles of donuts by now. They work side by side in silence. Kyle drums his fingers and watches the meter rise on the thermometer he sticks in the oiled pan, while Stan untangles the sets of fairy lights. Kyle's wondering if he should just give in and ask Stan "what they're doing about presents," when Stan speaks up and interrupts the thought.

"Are you coming for Christmas? My mom really wants you to come this year." The acute stare Stan directs his way indicates more than that – it's asking, _does she know about us_? Kyle wouldn't mind if she did, and he tells Stan as much through an easy nod. But it's still one step closer to his parents knowing, and he doesn't know if he wants to deal with that yet. Maybe after the holidays.

"I'll see," he says, giving up on the thermometer, which seems to be stuck at 300 no matter how high he turns up the heat. "For sure if my parents are away. But they might wanna spend more time together after Ike gets here." Ike––luckiest bastard in the whole town-–gets to skip the Hanukkah dinner because his vacation only starts a few days after. Kyle wishes he was still in college, just for that.

Suddenly, Stan lets out a surprised huff of laughter. Kyle turns to see him lifting a sprig of something olive green out of the box. It's an artificial mistletoe decoration with a huge, garish red ribbon wrapped around the stem.

"Dude, why do you even have this?" Stan says laughingly, lifting it in the air.

Kyle shakes his head at the absurd trinket. "I think Ike was trying to convince some girl to kiss him in high school. Probably." Stan nods but doesn't put it down, twiddling it between his thumb and forefinger with a distant expression. Kyle watches him from the corner of his eye. "What?" He smiles slyly, but it easily devolves into a snigger. "You thinking about whether you might finally get a hot girl to kiss you?"

"Blow me," Stan says without missing a beat. He smirks, but only for a moment. He puts the mistletoe down and turns to Kyle, that pensive look back in his eyes. "I really want you to come, too," he says. "I think– I'm pretty sure she does know," he glances at the ground, and then back up at Kyle again. "And I don't know, the way she was asking, and the way I answered, it was different than normal. It's like if you came, I'd be confirming it." He smiles, "Also, I need you there to drive me off a cliff when Dad starts getting drunk and trying to be buddies with Shelly's boyfriend twenty minutes into dinner."

That's fair reasoning, too. It's what he did last year, except it was up into the mountains, not off the edge of a cliff.

"Dude," Kyle says, turning to face him too, a little stunned at how shy Stan seems over this. It's not really a big deal, because Stan's mom is like, a sensible person, and they_ are_ close, but that just makes it prod warmer in Kyle's chest. Flour be damned. He puts his arms around Stan's shoulders, avoiding touching anything with his hands. "I'll come."

Stan squeezes him, his arms drawing tight and so warm around Kyle's waist, travelling up to his back. Kyle sighs contentedly. So that was a conversation. Sort of.

Stan leans his chin over Kyle's shoulder. "Also, your oil is burning."

Kyle pulls away, making a sound of utter annoyance. By the time he's got everything under control––and yes, maybe the donuts are looking a _little_ too brown, whatever, they'll still be delicious–– Stan has returned to untangling lights. Kyle feels a little bad for giving him such a tedious task and thinks about swapping for the next round of dough-cutting and frying.

The next thing Stan finds in that box puts it out of his mind completely. Stan gapes. "Holy shit, dude. I made this."

He holds up a transparent plastic bauble in his palm, the size of a tennis ball, maybe a little bigger. "Dude," Kyle says, staring in wonder as the memory returns. It must have been something like fourth grade, when they were doing 'fill your own baubles' in class. Kyle had been irritated. It was right at the time he was becoming fully aware of just how pervasive this Christmas fervour was, and really only starting to be clued in that maybe it was _that_ that made him feel so alone this time of year. A little estranged, uneasy, but nothing he could pinpoint to blame for it. Until he really thought about it. Kyle had spent the whole afternoon angrily snipping paper into non-denominational snowflakes, stuffing them into a cheap husk of a bauble that was too small in the end, for his creation to look anything like he wanted it to. Seething inside about if any of these teachers in this stupid school realised not everyone had stupid trees to hang stupid baubles off of, not everyone _cared_.

Stan hadn't gotten it – come to think of it, he had barely been paying attention – when Kyle ranted about it the day before. Kyle was too absorbed in his resentment to even talk to him during class. But afterwards, when he was stomping his way home, Stan had caught up with him, snow crunching wildly under his boots. Kyle turned to bark a warning at him not to run so he wouldn't slip, a recent careless injury of Stan's fresh and alive in his mind, but by the time he did, Stan was inches from him, panting, his gloved hands outstretched.

"Kyle, I made you this," he had said, breathless. "I know you're sick of all the Christmas shit."

Kyle looks at the bauble in Stan's palm now. It's a snowglobe. Stan had turned the bauble upside down, no string, and steadied the base with cardboard and tape. Tiny pieces of polystyrene snow littered the bottom. A miniscule toy car Stan had carried in his pocket once or twice was parked next to the flat facade of a house, coloured with thick marker ink– _Kyle's_ house. Stan had been at the very cusp of a goth phase, which explained why the colours weren't exactly bright enough to recognise, but the stick-figure of Kyle standing by the door had resolved any doubt.

Kyle laughs delightedly at the memory and Stan holds it closer to the light from above the cooker so he can observe it, an identical grin plastered on his face. The scene has been dislodged a little from where everything initially was, from the years of being jostled around in the box, and the craftsmanship is a little less impressive than he had found it to be age eight, but the glowing warmth that had struck him, standing with Stan in the snow halfway to the bus stop in that grey afternoon, is unmistakable. Just as striking now as it was then.

Kyle thinks he's made peace with all the bells and whistles of the Christmas season; he's learnt to sympathise with the sentiment, if not the expression, of the way it fevers over a small town like this. People just need something to get them out of the routine, that's all.

His hands are oily so he doesn't want to take the snowglobe, get grease all over it, even noting how ridiculous that might sound referring to a decade-old flimsy school project. Instead his eyes dart around, spotting the mistletoe––considerably less valuable–– and he picks it up with a bashful smile in an attempt to convey what he's feeling.

"Seriously?" Stan's laughing again.

"Yes," Kyle says, grinning, glowing. It's not often he feels like he can catch Stan off guard with this kind of thing.

"Dumbass," Stan declares, before crossing the space between, a feeble attempt at a beleaguered sigh lost in yet more laughs.

Stan kisses him with both hands around his face, direct, unusual. It _might _be partly a way to avoid all the oil on Kyle's apron – his fastidious cleanliness in every other aspect of life never seemed to translate to any sort of ability in the kitchen. Kyle knows he's smiling dopily when Stan takes a step back, his cheeks a now-familiar red under the harsher lights above the cooker. They look at each other until Kyle has to stop to look at the donuts.

He speeds through another batch, and finally, all the frying is done. Once he has the sugar prepared to dust them, Kyle stops, brushes his hands down on his apron and says, "Stan, do I get you something? For Christmas? Is that a thing we're doing?"

After a few seconds, Stan says, thoughtfully, "I do have something for you."

Kyle gives a nervous laugh. He thought right– it is what they're doing now. But did Stan think he had to now, because they're in a relationship, or does it feel more natural for him, and did he know what to get Kyle–– or is he overthinking it?

Because Stan is smiling, and then his shoulders are shaking, and then he's laughing. It's not mean–– but Kyle doesn't feel like he's in the know, either.

"What?"

"I have an _idea _for a gift," he says. "Or you could say–" he coughs surreptitiously, advancing on Kyle. "-a _favour._" Stan leans forward and tilts his chin into a lingering kiss.

_Oh. _Well.

When Kyle's done enjoying that, he says, "You dick. I'm trying to have a meaningful conversation here."

Stan blinks. "So am I," he says innocently. "Please respect my Christmas traditions, Kyle."

"Fuck off."

"Fine, what about Hanukkah?" Stan asks, still too close for comfort, and still with that trace of embarrassment around the edges of his voice.

"It's not even about presents," Kyle emphasises, rolling his eyes.

"You wouldn't be saying that if you knew what I was getting you," Stan says, the stare through his lashes over-the-top and playful. His arms circle Kyle, braced on the counter either side of him. Kyle's embarrassed to admit it still works. Some other feeling is decidedly overtaking his burgeoning hunger from the smell of donuts.

"What?" he demands, eyes level with Stan's.

Stan tilts his head back. "Well since you don't want them…"

"_What?_" Kyle breathes again, and finds himself hoping with only a little shame that the traffic is still hellish out there. He lets his hand wander in the vicinity of Stan's pelvis, come back up and stop flat above his stomach, close to his quickening heart.

"Well I was gonna blow you, um, eight times."

Kyle can't help how his eyes widen.

"For every day of Hanukkah," Stan says. His voice wavers with the effort not to laugh, "that's– that's how it works, right?"

Kyle collects himself before he can burst out laughing at the ridiculousness – not an easy task. He manages to smirk despite the heat pooling fast in his face from the, uh, generosity of Stan's gift idea. "So, is that my present or yours?"

Stan's expression remains remarkably cool at his retort; Kyle is surprised to read only a little embarrassment in it. Asshole. He coughs and smiles, leaning into Kyle, "Does it matter? It's the thought that counts, dude."


End file.
